


As By Holy Fire

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Quid Pro Quo [5]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Punishment, Spanking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Humiliation, a lot happens here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank fucks up and calls in a favour.





	1. Scoured

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for Juice and Inbox, even though no one asked for this. Sometimes, you just get what you're given.

Sometimes a job goes bad, and there’s nothing anyone can do to salvage it. Things go sideways, and it’s not anyone’s fault, per say. Intel was bad or timing or weather. There’s a billion factors outside any one man’s control, and sometimes, for no reason that can be helped, things go wrong.

A guy gets away. Evidence blows up. Innocent people get hurt.

You move on, you do your duty, the bad rolls off after a while.

This is not like that.

This shitshow is Frank’s fault. Refusing to follow good information, hesitating, letting some punk with a mask and a gimmick get in his head. This isn’t like running blind into a building rigged to blow on someone else’s orders; this is his fuck up alone.

That masked punk is dead now, but so are five girls whose only crime had been hoping too hard for a better future. Lives he should have saved, ended because he was too slow, too stupid. If he had been smarter, if he’d listened to the intel instead of his gut.

Worst of all is the fact that Lieberman had told him exactly what to do and he’d ignored it. He’d made a choice to trust his own intuition over the resources David had gone through hell to get for him, and five innocent women were dead now because of that choice. Executed the second he’d been dumb enough to show his face.

The youngest, not really a woman, just a girl, no more than sixteen. Her parents hung missing posters for her in the window of the bodega Frank frequented for coffee; that was how he got on the case in the first place. She’d looked like a tomboy, long brown hair drawn back in a ponytail, wearing a baseball cap in one panel on the poster, some numbered jersey in the other. She was laughing in both pictures. Her name was Lily, a name that haunts him along with the names of his daughter, his wife, his son.

Dead because he fucked up. Dead because he couldn’t save her.

Now he’s on the outs with Lieberman, getting in a fight over the validity of the intel he’d know damn well had been good when he’d elected to ignore it. He knows David has taken some guilt on himself, blames himself for not doing enough to make Frank listen to him, and knowing that makes Frank feel angrier, feel worse.

It sparked an argument Frank’s honestly not sure how to come back from, leading to his storming out of David’s basement and refusing to answer both times David’s tried to call since.

It’s hard, but he does his best not to let the shit from his night job effect the one that pays his rent. He shows up, puts his hours in, silent and intent on the physicality of the job, wishing dully someone would try to start shit. Pete can’t afford to get in a fist fight on the job site, certainly not while on the clock, but he wishes for it just the same.

Perhaps reading that, or maybe reading just his split and bruised knuckles, his coworkers give him a wider berth than usual.

He breaks Wilson’s nose three days after the shitshow, punching him full force when the little shit tries to crawl in through the window of his apartment one afternoon.

“I _tried_ knocking, you fucking ignored me!” the mercenary barks, one hand pressed to his bloodied face and the other raised in a vague warding-off gesture when Frank makes to hit him again. “Christ on a bike, _please_ go talk to your therapist.”

“I don’t _have_ a therapist,” Frank snarls, grabbing Wilson by his upraised arm and dragging him bodily back to the open window.

“Well, fucking _get one_ ,” Wilson snaps, yanking his arm out of Frank’s hold. “Or call Nate -- he’s always more than willing to slap the stupid off me when I’m being an asshole.”

The exchange doesn’t sit well with Frank, even if Wilson does leave him alone afterward. He feels like he’s burning up inside, choking to death on the fumes of his own burning guts. He’s angry in a way he can’t trust, angry in a way that makes him stupid and volatile, ready to lash out recklessly. He goes out to blow off steam like this, he’s apt to wind up dead, and the realization that the idea holds some appeal to him is a little frightening.

Not caring if he dies going after a thug is a little different than _wanting_ to be dead.

It’s almost dark out when he gives in and calls Cable. His studio apartment is bathed in murky purplish shadow and hazy sunset light, and it takes some mental arguing before he pulls out his phone, impulsive and fast like he might lose his nerve, and dials.

“Frank,” is the greeting he gets, Cable’s tone bland. Frank hesitates for a moment -- what if Cable’s in the middle of something, what if he’s out of the country, what if it’s 2AM where he is and Frank’s calling to ask for a fist fight like a jackass? -- before deciding Cable’s not the sort of guy to pick up the phone if he didn’t have time to handle whoever was on the other end.

“I need to call in a favour,” he says roughly, hand tight around his phone. He keeps thinking about punching Wilson in the face, the guilty, sick satisfaction of bone breaking against his bruised knuckles. How pain was a relief. “I need a sparring partner. Someone who can actually land a hit.”

Cable seems to mull that around for a moment. “We can’t do that at your place, Frank. Not tonight, not when you have neighbors.”

The idea of someone calling the cops thinking someone had busted in or was trying to assault him -- or worse, that he was beating someone else -- hits him with a visceral sense of shame so heavy it’s like a wave of self-loathing. “I know a place, safe house I use. Used to be a church rec hall.”

Another pause, considering. Frank feels that crawling sense of guilt bleeding out all through him. The room is getting darker, it’s late; normal people are settling in for dinner, winding down from the day, and Frank’s asking a man to meet him up somewhere and punch him for a while.

“Give me the address,” Cable says finally, and Frank can suddenly breathe again. “I can meet you in two hours.”

Frank gives the address and hangs up, tossing the phone on the couch like it might bite him before burying his face in his hands, scrubbing his palms over his eyes. He’s burning like this; it’s only reasonable that he do something to put the flames out.

He dicks around for a twenty minutes or so and then drags a coat on, even though that means he’ll certainly be well over half an hour early. It doesn’t matter; if he waited to leave, he’d just be pacing a hole in his own floor.

Part of him expects Cable to be late. Make him wait, maybe not even show up at all. He feels wound tight and anxious, like his body might fly apart if he’s asked to spend another day pretending all is well.

Cable shows up, if anything, a little early. He must have used that ‘bodyslide’ tech, because one minute Frank is standing alone in the abandoned rec center, and the next he’s keenly aware of eyes on him, processing him. When he turns to face him, Cable is eyeing him with a mild expression. He does not look impressed with Frank’s coiled anger and stiff posture; he reminds Frank, strongly, of one of his Drill Instructors in basic training.

He looks like a man tasked with a menial, unpleasant job, the sort that’s necessary but ugly. Being looked at that way makes Frank’s fists and chest clench, angry and ashamed. Without really thinking, he finds himself shifting to parade rest, hands moving from his sides to lock behind his back, weight balanced on both feet.

“I’m really get tired of you dancing around what you want,” Cable says finally, and his tone drips with an acidic sort of disappointment. Frank feels caught out, but holds his position and his tongue. “You and I both know damn well that what you want isn’t to spar. Is it?”

Working his jaw silently, it takes moment for Frank’s chest to loosen enough that he can trust himself to speak. He can’t lie: Cable will know. That’s part of why it needed to be Cable; Cable forces him to be honest. He can trust him; better, Cable falls neatly into the role of a superior, someone Frank _has_ to listen to.

“No.” He finally grinds out, and the thumb of his left hand is digging into the meat of his right palm.

Cable’s head tilts just slightly to the side. He doesn’t stand like a commanding officer surveying his men; he leans against the wall, insouciant and bored, arms folded across his chest. He probably knew what Frank was hoping for when Frank called, probably picked it out of his tone or his brain; certainly he knows by now. Frank’s head may as well be made of glass, the inner workings of his mind open for Cable’s perusal at any time. Frank hates it, and yet there’s a comfort there.

If Cable knew from the get go and still decided to show up, then he’s not likely to deny him.

“You’re thinking that if I beat the shit out of you, it’ll absolve you of your fuck up. Like a few bruises, maybe a broken bone or two, can change anything. You didn’t listen to the last person you enlisted to tell you what to do, so why the fuck should I believe that slapping you around a little is going to convince you to listen next time?”

That isn’t anything Frank’s prepared to answer. The ugly heat boiling in his guts, clawing up his throat and scorching his tongue seems to intensify, leaving him breathing harshly through his nose, teeth clenched hard against angry words that will help nothing if allowed to leave his mouth. He can’t maintain eye contact, not with Cable’s eyes boring into him through the dim-lit room, and closes them briefly before setting his gaze to the middle distance, the way he had in training when the DI got in his face to bark.

He says nothing, because there is nothing to say. Cable’s right, of course. He wants to be punished because if someone would just hurt him, hurt him sufficiently bad, he can put this behind him. He can call the ledger balanced, for whatever insane value of balanced exists for people like him.

Cable pushes away from the wall; Frank hears the slide of his metal hand against the painted cinder block wall and the soft click of his boots as he crosses the room. He keeps his eyes forward, fixed; his thumbnail is buried in the flesh of his palm now. His jaw hurts from clenching his teeth.

“I appreciate that you at least don’t try to lie to me,” Cable says blandly, and there’s just a hint of boredom in his tone, a sort of almost petulance as if he can’t believe he’s being asked to deal with something so meaningless. His fingers feel hot on Frank’s face when he grabs him by the jaw, forcing him to focus on what’s in front of him. They’re strong, those fingers; Frank wants him to hit him, wants him to hurt him. Someone has to and no one will, no one will take responsibility for his bullshit, and why should they?

The fingers on his face tighten brutally, and Cable shakes him, like one might shake a misbehaving child. “Stop that,” he growls, “right now. Your self-flagellating bullshit serves no purpose and I’m already sick of listening to it.”

Part of Frank wants to snap at that. Tell Cable to forget it then, tell him to leave, fuck off, and take his goddamn favours with him. Part of him, small and mean and seething with rage he desperately wants out of him, want to swing at the other man, force the issue, make the fight happen anyway. He feels all those things rise and circle, birds stirred up before settling back to roost in the ugly, formless heat smothering him.

Cable’s hand moves from clutching Frank’s jaw to pat condescendingly at his cheek before withdrawing entirely. “We’re going to have a long fucking talk after I finish with you, is that understood?”

Hope springs, ugly and twisted by guilt and shame, at those words. He makes himself nod, heart beating steady but hard. If there’s an after, that means an event, that means getting what he needs. Cable isn’t the kind to promise without delivering.

“You want to be punished, then I’ll punish you. But a beating -- you take a punch too well to learn anything from it.” Cable’s lips quirk in a thin smile, but it’s not like the smiles Frank is used to seeing from him. This one is mean and cool. He wants to shudder and forces himself to remain perfectly still, thumbnail carving a bloody crescent in the opposite palm. “You trust me, right, Lieutenant?”

Another nod, and then, with more effort than he can justify for how softly the word leaves him, “Yes.”

“Yes _what_ , Lieutenant?”

Frank swallows tightly, his heartbeat for a moment speeding up, becoming erratic. He knows exactly what Cable wants to hear, knows exactly what he’s meant to say -- what he’s been trying desperately _not_ to say since that first rough blowjob. For a moment he thinks he simply won’t be able to, and then Cable frowns and starts to step away, putting distance between them again. “Sir. Yes sir,” he finally gets out, rushed but not slurred, desperate but perfectly enunciated.

“There you go. You’re going to do everything I tell you to, right to the letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

He wants desperately for Cable to put hands on him again. Anything would do, it’s just that when Cable touches him, his mind feels quieter. Those rough, firm hands, capable of meting out such devastating pain, Frank is sure, were a comfort.

Cable does not touch him, perhaps pointedly. Frank does not deserve comfort, he understands that.

“It’s cold in here, don’t you think?”

It is; the old brick building has no working heat anymore and is the old kind of cinder brick construction that would be sweltering in summer, freezing in winter. This early in the spring, it’s dank and chilly.

“Yes, sir,” he says, because he’s not been given leave to speak freely.

Walking away, further into the big, open room, Cable hums, a low, considering noise. “Strip. Warm clothes are a comfort you don’t deserve.”

It’s not the sentiment but the casual, plain delivery that stings. Cable says it like Frank being dressed is an allowance he’d regrettably made, overestimating Frank’s worth. It’s cruel in a way Frank can’t define, demeaning, almost dehumanizing, and he gives in and shivers as he pulls his shirt over his head.

When he’s naked, his clothes stacked neatly beside his boots, he returns to parade rest, hands locked at the small of his back but no longer digging into one another. Cable is picking over the items on the work table; the open gun cleaning kit with the mostly empty bottle of Hoppes oil laying on its side, the dog eared copy of some old paperback he remembered enjoying but not well enough to have taken it with him when he’d stopped frequenting this spot, a number of old rags too frayed and stained to have been considered worth taking when Frank had cleaned up.

Finally, he picks up the book, brushing a thin film of dust off of it and gestures to Frank, almost absently, to follow him. He doesn’t even look at him, hasn’t since telling him to undress; he expects compliance and sees no need to ensure that Frank has done as he’s told. It’s that realization as much as the cold that makes Frank’s skin break out in goosebumps.

Cable settles himself in the ratty old armchair that served as the only peace of passably comfortable furniture in the big, hollow space. Frank had left a cot and the work table as well, but this had ever been a place meant for long-term use, so he’d never done anything to make it more comfortable than he’d had to. A cheap armchair rescued from a nearby apartment block’s trash was plenty comfortable for a few hours, and that’s as long as Frank expected to ever spend here.

“You’re comfortable on your feet,” Cable states, leaning into the back of the chair and resting the book on his thigh. Beside him on a low plastic table (also rescued from the nearby trash) there is a Coleman camping lantern, which he turns on, bathing this side of the old rec hall in warm light. “So this should be easy enough. I see no point in starting you out with something you’ll fuck up anyway, so you’re going to stand there, feet shoulder width apart, yes, exactly. Now your hands, behind your head, elbows parallel to the ground.”

This is not what Frank had wanted. He wants brutal and fast, he wants hands on him, fists. He wants Cable to beat him until he forgets that there’s anything in the world but pain -- because he can trust Cable in that, the same as he can trust him in a mission or trust him in bed, not to go farther than Frank can take, even if in the moment Frank feels pushed beyond his limit.

In what he’s being given -- a child’s chastisement, mixed with the vague humiliation of being naked in the cold -- there will be pain, but it comes slow. It’s torture in the way he’d tried to teach Lieberman about torture; not agony, not emotion, but just the passage of time.

He feels something like a slap to his face. He even hears it, the clap of a palm striking his cheek, and his head snaps down and to the side, one side of his face lighting up in pain. It’s enough that his eyes water, and he swallows tightly as he looks back at Cable, meeting the stare now boring into him.

“I said elbows parallel to the floor. Straighten your arms, fingers laced against the back of your head. You spend all this time thinking about what you want, what you think you deserve, and none of that fucking matters. You’re getting what I give you, are we clear on that?”

Frank grits his teeth, and his chest again, for a moment, feels so tight he thinks he’ll never be able to get a real breath in ever again. Seconds pass, too long for a normal pause, and then, awkwardly, he concedes with another, “Yes.”

In the stark light, it’s easy to see the way Cable’s lip curls a little, the way his face creases in disdaining irritation. Frank doesn’t quite expect it when he’s struck again, the same force, the same side of his face. There will be a mark later, Frank thinks; there’s probably a mark there now, hot and red and obvious. A slap is still not quite what he wants; there’s something dismissive to a slap, and what he’s done, what he needs to be punished for, is not a dismissable thing.

“You will not lock your knees. You will not lower your arms. And you will be _silent_ until I tell you to be otherwise. Are we clear?”

Frank doesn’t quite dare speak again, still uncertain what he’d done to be slapped the second time -- he’s torn between having dropped the ‘sir’ and having started to lock his knees. So he fixes his gaze into the middle distance, and nods just once.

Without saying another word, Cable picks the book up off his lap, opens it, and begins reading.

At first, Frank assumes the book is a prop. Cable can’t actually be planning on getting invested in a book during this, he can’t expect Frank to just stand here in silence indefinitely. But after five minutes, Cable hasn’t done so much as glance from the pages, and the first nuances of pain are beginning to bloom.

Not allowed to lock his knees, his legs are quickly becoming tired. It requires the use of more muscle to remain balanced if he can’t fully extend his legs, and the position of his arms is rapidly becoming difficult to maintain as well.

Frank has always been pretty good at keeping time in his head, but after the first five minutes it starts to become hazy even for him. It’s difficult to focus on anything but keeping his posture, and he must keep his posture. Cable made a point of stating this was too easy to fuck up and he knows that’s bait but he’s not going to go down easy, either. Frank knows torture, he understands; most of it is in the mind, sure, but it’s easy to fuck with the mind if you fuck with the body.

Stress positions fuck with the body. And this might be an easy one, as those go, but it’s still a stress position.

It hurts but it isn’t what he _needs_. He needs more, he needs intensity, and Cable’s not even looking at him. Cable is so assured in his authority that he doesn’t even bother to watch to make sure Frank obeys. He’s _ignoring_ Frank, might as well not even be in the same room as him, and still Frank finds himself desperate to do this, to hold position until told to do otherwise.

He needs, in a fundamental way, to prove that he can follow orders, he can do as he’s told. He’s fucked up but he can, he _will_ , do better.

It’s not quite fifteen minutes in when he feels what at first he thinks is a bug crawling down his chest, tickling from collarbone to nipple. Tasked with keeping still, he can’t brush it away, or even look to see what ‘it’ is. Only when the touch presses against his nipple and rubs does he understand, sucking in a sharp, disbelieving breath. Cable does not look up, but the touch becomes sharp, twisting the captured flesh, and he says absently, “Quiet.”

Honestly Frank’s uncertain how to feel. His body, as the invisible groping continues, is less conflicted than his mind; his dick quickly starts chubbing up as his chest and shoulders are stroked and fondled. They’re exploratory touches, idle, like Frank’s whole reason for being here is to be felt up and judged by this man.

The idea of this becoming sexual when he needs so badly to be punished is shamefully alluring. It’s dirty in a way he can’t define. Like he’s being rewarded while pretending to be punished.

His fingers loosen against his skull as touch skates up his inner thighs. It’s suddenly too much, too many emotions warring inside and too many sensations outside. His skin is cold and singing with constant caressing, but his chest and guts are hot and livid, shame and anger and deep, deep hatred, all with no real direction.

Cable turns the page and Frank fights not to squirm, loses. His legs tighten, toes clenched against the cold hardness of the floor like he can force himself to stay in place, but his arms start to dip, aching. It’s not like Cable will notice with his nose in his book.

All at once the sensation of being touched stops. The invisible, groping hands simply disappear, and Frank is pushed back into position, held there as Cable finally looks up and locks eyes with him.

“You think just because I’m not watching you, you don’t have to be good for me, Lieutenant?”

It’s like being paralyzed, except there’s no fear of overbalancing, no chance, in fact, for the _relief_ of being allowed to collapse. The telekinetic hold keeps him balanced and in position, but it takes none of his weight. His feet ache from the cold and the muscles in his thighs, his calves, are beginning to tremble, and Frank can’t even shake his head to deny it.

He wants to say that this isn’t what he’d wanted, but that’s not exactly true. He wants to say this is pointless, but that’s not exactly true either. This is humiliating, and maybe that’s the way he needs to be hurt after all. Bruises fade and bones mend but shame just seems to grow and grow.

“No sir,” he says, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Cable sneers. It’s a supremely unpleasant look on his face; makes him look, with the scars and the glowing, mechanical eye, like a comic book villain. It’s also a little frightening, because that’s suddenly the face of a man who’s not just okay with cruelty but is artistic with it. That’s the face of a man who likes breaking people.

“Let’s raise the stakes then, Lieutenant,” Cable says. “I won’t ask you to change position since you’ve gotten so good at this one, but if you move again, I really will beat you.” He holds up his metal hand. “I’ll beat you bloody, one handed.”

It occurs to Frank to ask if Cable is joking. He’s seen the man throw a guy across the room with that hand, seen him crush metal to uselessness. It occurs to him to ask, but he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Given your current track record, I doubt I’ll make it through this chapter, but I’m giving you a chance to surprise me,” Cable says dryly, and then he raises the book again and Frank feels suddenly a sort of release, the possibility returning that he could move.

He thinks about asking how long Cable expects him to stay like this, but he’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that as well. Cable expects him to stay until he says different.

This time the touching returns within a bare handful of minutes. It’s like a dozen independent hands on him, rubbing, petting, stroking, never firm enough to be something to latch on to. His flesh crawls, muscles twitching at the soft, sensual touch. It’s all he can do to keep himself silent when attention finally lands on his groin -- it’s too gentle, too detached to be strictly _pleasant_ , but it still sends a jolt through him.

Something like a hand curls around his cock and starts squeezing, stroking, gentle and easy.

And Frank tries, he really does. It doesn’t matter how he tenses up his thighs, trying to divert blood flow, or how he breathes in rigidly controlled inhales. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries to focus on the pain that’s digging slow hooks into his arms and legs. His dick thickens and slowly gets hard, hot and heavy and filling him with some terribly molten emotion, boiling up between shame and pleasure.

He doesn’t know how long this has been going on for. It feels like the night has been an eternity already, it also feels like this has all just started. Frank is shaking now, his whole body tense and unsteady; he feels like a rubber band pushed right to the edge of its limits, taut and stretch out of shape, ready to snap. He has to hold position, it’s the only damn thing Cable has asked of him, and he _can_ , he can follow directions.

When his balls start to feel heavy and tense, like this vague, drawn out telekinetic hand-job is really going to be enough, he thinks, the thought crazy and almost manic in his feverish mind, _at least coming isn’t against the rules._

Right on the edge, as close as he can remember getting without the relief of release, the touch stops, and that’s all the rubber band can take. The burning, awful flood of shame, inadequacy, hate, and guilt all wash over him like a sweeping tide and he wobbles where he stands. He doesn’t fall, and he quite literally bites his own tongue to keep himself quiet, but his feet shift to keep his balance and his arms droop.

The book shuts. Cable’s expression is one of something like patient sympathy, but his eyes are amused. “Look at you. You can't even follow my directions. How could you expect to succeed on your own, following your own orders?"

Frank isn’t sure when he started shaking, only that if he unclenches his jaw his teeth will chatter. He can’t say anything, and his hands, dropped to hang uselessly at his side since Cable looked up at him, curl into meaningless fists. He’s drowning. He’s burning. He’s so uselessly ashamed, the sentiment seeming to be so integral to his existence at that he can’t feel anything else.

Cable tosses the paperback on the little plastic table, rattling the lamp, and pushes to his feet. Frank is shaking and he isn’t sure, not really, if it’s fear or eagerness that’s got his pulse up. Either option only serves to heighten the sense of shame eating through him, but this was what he’d called Cable for in the first place. His eyes flick to the metal hand, then back to Cable’s face.

The hand that tangles roughly in his hair, yanking him forward, is human as can be, but still strong, still perfectly capable of bringing pain. He’s dragged forward, his hair released only for him to be shoved toward the chair Cable has vacated.

“Kneel on the seat. I want your arms across the back. Folded.” Frank obeys; there is no other option. He jumps, knees already twinging in this position, when Cable presses at his inner thigh, encouraging Frank to spread his legs. “Knees against the arms. Keep your back straight, and don’t you dare move.”

The first blow makes his whole body tense, and even though Cable didn’t explicitly remind him to remain silent, he fights to. He has been beaten before -- not like this, but a beating is a beating. He can take it.

“You know why I’m doing this, Frank?”

Words echo across his consciousness, excuses or curses or statements of defiance, but he can’t make a single one coherent much less spoken. His mouth opens only so he can pant, desperately trying to get a full breath. Cable strikes him again, then grabs hold of his hair dragging him down into a rough back-bend.

“Because you want me to,” Cable snarls, straight into Frank’s ear before shoving him back forward. He ends up with his chest against the back of the chair, his ass pushed out slightly, and before he can even think to remedy his posture, he’s struck twice more in rapid succession.

Shaking, he pushes himself up to kneel properly and straightens his spine, and Cable makes an approving noise. Mortifyingly, Frank realizes that he’s crying as Cable palms his ass. “You hold still for a dozen hits, I’ll fuck you the way you _also_ want,” he sneers, and Frank’s eyes squeeze shut, humiliation and shame twisting in the fire still raging through him. His dick throbs, still semi-hard and interested in that promise.

Cable doesn’t ask him to count out loud, doesn’t ask him to do anything other that take it, and that’s good because Frank doesn’t think it’s in him to do anything more. That first strike had been jarring because the metal had felt cool against his skin even even as it cracked against his flesh. By the fourth blow it feels hot, burning with every touch.

It’s not a dozen hits; it can’t be. He’s been kneeling here for an eternity; the shuddering ache in his limbs and the ache in his gut, bleeding into the small of his back, have been there forever. Cable will stop when he stops and all Frank can do to expedite that is remain kneeling, no matter how much he wants to crumble.

Eventually, the hitting stops. Frank notices the quiet first, punctuated only by his own wet, ragged breathing.

“That’s all you needed isn’t it,” Cable growls, hands on Frank again, keeping him still, perfectly in place. “You like to play defiant, but all I have to do is promise to stick my dick in you and suddenly you’re perfectly capable of obeying.”

Frank hisses through his teeth as the hands on him slide back to his ass, pressing over the tender flesh -- bruised for certain, but judging by the stinging lines of heat slashed irregularly across the surface, possibly actually bloodied. The flesh hand holds him open, pressing hard against the abused skin, while metal fingers slide along the crack of his ass. He refuses to make a sound even as his brain howls negation and horror and shameful, crawling _want_. If Cable tries to push in with those hard metal digits it’s going to _hurt,_ but he deserves the pain, even if he doesn’t want it.

“Should I tell your buddy that, the one who got all that intel worked up for you, the guy you asked for help and then ignored?” Cable hisses straight in his ear, and Frank wavers, back buckling as he tries to duck away. The shame is part of him now, ugly and huge and threatening to burst out of his chest like some morbid birth, and Cable dragging Lieberman into it somehow makes it more real, more awful. “Is that what it takes to make you be good?”

Swallowing is hard; his mouth and throat are dry and tight, but Frank manages. His head bows and Cable allows this, despite Frank expecting to be grabbed by the hair again. His head is beginning to ache, pressure behind his eyes and his nose. Tears are still streaming from his eyes, and he knows he looks like a mess. Naked and shaking, kneeling on a chair with a bruised ass, red with shame and anger and unable to even fight because Cable’s not _wrong_.

Metal fingers clamp onto his hip, organic ones grab him about the jaw, twisting his head to make him meet Cable’s eye over his shoulder. “Is it, Frank?”

“No,” he breathes, and it’s weak, not even defiant, but broken negation. He doesn’t know where the word comes from, but it’s the _right_ word, he knows it is because Cable’s eyes soften even as he sneers.

“Then fucking _prove it_ ,” Cable snarls, releasing his hold and letting Frank sag for a moment. “Learn from your fuck ups and do _better_.”

It shouldn’t, but the words make Frank feel worse. Do better, he needed to do better but the fuck up was so intrinsically his fault he didn’t know _how_. How could he do better when he couldn’t trust his own gut to make the right choice?

Behind him, Cable makes a low, irritated sound and grabs him by the shoulder, yanking him to he spills backwards onto the floor. It’s hard, and cold, and Frank makes a horrible noise when he lands ass-first, the landing rough on abused flesh, sending pain echoing up through him.

“You do better by _listening to the people you ask for help_ , Lieutenant,” Cable snaps, standing over him, looking like the wrath of god in silhouette. With the lamp behind him and the glow from his fake eye, his feature stand in eerie relief against the shadow, and Frank feels, for once, small. “Can you do that?”

Frank nods; he doesn’t know what else to do.

Raising his hand, Cable makes a blunt ‘turn over’ gesture. “Get on your hands and knees, then. I’m not finished with you.”

Pain and emotion make Frank clumsy, but he does as he’s told as quickly as he’s able. Cable gives a little noise as he gets on his knees behind Frank, hands on him, moving him roughly how he wants him. Frank’s knees are already stiff and sore from kneeling on the chair and that at least had been padded. The floor is unforgiving, and Cable shoves sharply between his shoulders until Frank complies, dropping so his cheek is against the cool laminate.

Last time, in that sunny bedroom in the mountain safe house, Cable made the prep something indulgent and drawn out, not just about getting Frank physically ready but warming him up, teasing him almost.

This is not like that at all. Cable is brusque, no warning and no build up. Frank doesn’t know where the lube comes from, only that he’s glad for its existence and for Cable taking the time to use it. It’s a mercy, for a given value of mercy, that Frank definitely hasn’t earned. Cable does exactly enough to make Frank’s body comfortable for him to use, and that is exactly what it feels like. It’s not sex, because sex is a shared act, sex is something two people do together to feel good.

It’s not exactly a punishment, but it’s definitely not about making Frank feel good, especially not when Cable buries his cock in Frank’s ass and shoves his face harder against the floor to smother the shocked, pained noise that escapes. He shoves hard enough that Frank expects he’ll see a bruise later, the same side of his face already having been struck twice by those telekinetic slaps.

“Right now, you’re nothing,” Cable growls, above and behind him, hard, heavy hands holding him open as he fucks him in slow, punishing thrusts. There’s a weight against his shoulders and the back of his head, holding him so he can’t get his arms under him, so he’s trapped with his chest against the floor and his ass in the air, a position that feels strangely wanton. “You know, somewhere in that thick head, that you can’t do everything alone, so when are you gonna start acting like a team player?”

The question is pointed and digs in deep. Frank can’t answer and that’s part of it; he can’t defend himself, he can’t argue, he can’t struggle, he can only take.

“You want to be treated like more than a body other people get to use -- to fight, to shoot, to fuck?” Cable’s words are like scalpels, picking through Frank’s brain and digging out the worst to spread it where he can’t look away from it. “You want to be treated like you _matter_ , like you’re not just a fuck up we can throw at a problem and be unsurprised when you fail?”

He does, he does. As best he can in this position, he nods, and for a moment, Cable slows down, grinding into him, cock pressing something deep and good, and it’s almost, almost pleasant. Then Cable speaks again.

“Then start acting like you believe it.”

A sound finally leaves him, and it’s ugly, broken, a dry sob. Frank’s tears are cool on his hot face, smearing into the dirty floor as he’s shoved down and fucked. He can’t move, and he can’t stop. All the shame and self-loathing and ugly, bitter things he’s thought and felt for the last few days are breaking through his ribs and pouring out of him in that noise, those tears, and Cable holds on and keeps fucking him through it.

Shamefully, despite the sobbing and the pain and all the rough treatment, Frank’s dick is still hard, getting harder as Cable keeps moving, targeting his prostate now. After a moment of almost thoughtful fucking, Cable curls over him and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking him tight and slow. “You want to be good, right Frank?”

That’s all he wants, it’s all he ever wants. It just doesn’t seem to matter how hard he tries because he manages to fuck everything up anyway.

“Shh, hey. You’re good, you’re being so good right now, and you’re gonna do what I say, right. To the letter.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, like Frank’s obedience and inherent goodness are simply facts that cannot be argued.

“Be good then, be good and come for me.”

Shivering and choking on his attempts to hold back the sobbing that wants to really break free of him, Frank at first thinks he can’t. He’s hard and physically he’s ready but for some reason he simply _can’t_ and it makes him feel a horrible sense of panic. It’s the last thing Cable’s asking of him and even that he can’t just _do_.

Cable doesn’t say anything else, but he makes this soft, pleased sound and bucks in particularly deep, and abruptly Frank couldn’t keep from coming if he wanted to, if he had to. He comes hard and sudden, hitting the fake wood hard enough that he feels his spunk splash back in Pollock-esque splatters.

It’s like flipping a switch. Cable pulls out; Frank’s unsure if he finishes or not, but he doesn’t do inside if he does. Hands that had been firm and rough with him are suddenly gentle, easing him to lay down when he feels like he’s about to collapse. Even Cable’s voice is different, warm and soft.

“I’ve got you,” he says, rubbing a warm hand over Frank’s arm, over his side, like he’s a skittish animal to be soothes. “Hey, it’s alright, I got you, you're okay.”

Frank curls into himself, sore in every way he can be, and the tears and sobs that he’d been struggling to keep at bay, that had leaked out despite his best efforts, suddenly refuse to be held. He starts to cry the way he hasn’t let himself cry in years, and it’s not just for his recent SNAFU it’s for everything. It’s all the grief and pain and ugliness he’s been boxing up and burying in his head, bubbling up like riverbed corpses.

Cable does not leave. Cable doesn’t even move from his side, where he’s sitting and touching, just gently running a warm palm over Frank’s back. At some point the Coleman lamp either burns out or Cable uses that convenient telekinesis to turn it off, and they’re left in the dark, only the light off the street filtering through filthy windows to keep the place lit at all. The sobbing takes a long time to taper off, and Frank hardly notices the passing time.

He wants to stop, but he can’t, and Cable doesn’t stop him. Cable doesn’t shush him or berate him or feed him platitudes, not even the ones that people _always_ say, the ‘it’s all over’s and the ‘it’ll get better now’s. Cable simply stays with him and lets him weep until he’s hollowed out from it, until the fire that’s been burning him alive has eaten up all its fuel and there’s nothing left in him to give anymore.

Then, Cable runs gentle fingers through his hair, leaning down to kiss his temple. It could be patronizing, that kiss, but it’s not. It’s not.

“I think you need to sleep,” Cable says, and Frank agrees even though he can’t find words for it. He can’t find words, either, for the panicky feeling that rises at the thought of sleeping alone after this. “I’ll take you home. Sleep in your own bed, where you know you’re safe.”

All Frank can manage is a single nod. He isn’t even sure he can stand, but he nods.

Cable murmurs, “Bodyslide by two,” and in the space of a blink, Frank is no longer laying on the hard floor of the safe house but in the creaking softness of his own bed. Cable stands and moves around in the dark; Frank stays exactly where he is. The idea of moving is uniformly bad; he makes himself compliant as Cable sits beside him and gently mops up his face, then his stomach and groin. He touches Frank carefully and kindly, and it’s a relief, really, when after leaving for a moment to deal with the cloth he’d been using to clean Frank up with, he’s stripped down to his underwear and climbs into bed behind Frank.

Frank hasn’t shared a bed with anyone, not once, since the last night he and Maria had fallen asleep together. Sharing space, close enough to breathe the same air, or feel a heartbeat against his back, that’s intimate. Scary.

And yet the weight of Cable’s arm around his waist, the subtle mechanical whir of his metal half, the warmth of his nose pressed against Frank’s shoulder -- these are all comforting things. Sleep is usually the herald of stressful dreams, old fears given new voice, but tonight his head is only white noise and the vague sense of exhausted comfort.

Faintly, so faint he can’t be sure if he imagined it or not, Frank thinks he hears Nathan, low and soothing. “I’ve got you,” he says, and then Frank is down for the count, out like a light.


	2. And Made Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots who don't understand boundaries try to talk about them.

It’s light that wakes him, and for once he eases into waking instead of slamming into it, gasping and feeling for a weapon. For a few precious, lazy moments, he is perfectly calm, totally at ease in a way he hasn’t known since before his son learned to walk. He feels hollowed out and empty, like he’s been scoured out.

He can smell bacon, hear someone humming in his kitchen, and the sense of peace abandons him, vanished as if never there at all. He feels guilty and embarrassed – he hasn’t shared his bed in years, and the idea of having done so after _that_ , after falling apart that way…

He almost wishes it had been Wilson after all who’d taken him apart last night. Even if Wilson had stayed to cook breakfast, he’d have cheapened the whole thing with filthy jokes and pithy overblown nonsense about the romance they didn’t actually have. Wilson would have made sure it all came off as enough of a joke that they could both move on and pretend nothing had happened at all.

Cable is not like Wilson. He will make this a _Thing_. He’d already promised that they’d be having a ‘long talk’.

“You’re gonna take a shower first, but yeah, we are,” Cable says from the kitchen, sounding mildly amused. He snorts when Frank raises his hand to flip him off – even wallowing in his shame over the utter mess he’d turned into last night, he knows he should feel some measure of affront at Cable already picking through his thoughts.

That affront, though, is mingled with a different emotional cocktail; there’s a comfort, he’s starting to realize, in the way Cable reads him. He’s always had trouble expressing emotion, but since taking a round to the head, waking up in a hospital with all the bells of hell ringing in his skull, he finds that half the time he can’t even _understand_ his own emotions. He picks one and runs with it, and the easiest to run with is anger.

Understanding his own emotions is trouble enough, and then trying to respond appropriately to anyone else’s is… _difficult._ He’s alarmingly bad at understanding other people anymore, and he knows – he’s dumb, but he can read, and it had seemed important to read up on traumatic brain injuries after getting one – that some of that comes with the territory of having been shot in the head. But that injury is old now, and he still hasn’t really adapted, and acknowledging that feels like a personal failing he doesn’t know how to address.

Somehow, because of that, letting Cable rummage around in his head is… peaceful. Cable sees through all the bullshit, half of which Frank isn’t even conscious of constructing until it’s called out, and directs him to actions and solutions that leave him feeling better in the long run.

Like now, waking up for the first time in God-knows-how-long feeling… calm. Rested. Feeling like there’s some measure of comfort and normalcy in his admittedly fucked up life.

He doesn’t think getting the shit kicked out of him last night would have left him feeling this way. Last night may not have gone the way he’d imagined it going – might have resulted in a mortifying breakdown in front of one of the few people he holds in any measure of esteem – but the end result was… good. Encouraging. And no one but Cable could have done that, because no one but Cable could sift around in his brain that way.

Limping into the bathroom, he’s thinking about that. It’s incredibly disconcerting, not just that someone can be in his head and understand the riot in there (sometimes better than he himself can) but that he should find himself appreciating it.

Frank’s bathroom is dingy and small, the tiles cracked and the air always smelling faintly of mildew, no matter how well he cleans. Every part of his body seems stiff and aching, but it’s not even close to the worst he’s felt after a hard night. He gets the shower cranked to hot and listens to the water howl through the pipes before freezing water comes bursting from the shower head, then shuffles over to the basin to brush his teeth while he waits for the water to warm.

His reflection is less of a mess than he’s expecting, probably thanks to Cable mopping his face up before they’d fallen asleep. His eyes are tired, but the dark marks under them are even a little better. There’s a mark on his right cheek, ghosting over the ridge of bone, that might darken into a real bruise given time, but currently is just a vaguely tender redness.

By the time he spits mouthwash into the sink, the room is starting to fill with steam. It’s almost more a closet than a room; no windows and poorly ventilated, but he’s quick enough in the shower even when he’s actually wounded. Today he steps under the spray and groans a little, relaxing in the heat and forgetting, for a minute, the slew of bullshit that makes up his current troubling life.

It’s nice just to stand there alone, soaking up the heat and feeling, for a little while, fully connected to himself. Yes, there’s pain – his bruised ass, for one thing, is likely going to be miserable for a few days – and yes, he’s physically still very tired, but things have been much, much worse before, and overall, just having that old, ugly tangle that had been sitting in his chest, knotted up around his heart and threaded into his lungs, having that gone is a relief he’d never expected.

His towels are aren’t quite as dingy as the bathroom, but it’s a near match. Threadbare and rough, he’s not as vicious in scrubbing himself dry when he steps out of the shower as he’d usually be, and he takes his time. He’s not really avoiding having whatever conversation it is that Cable wants to have, but putting it off is an added bonus of his thoroughness.

Looking at the tub he remembers, vivid and sudden, Wilson laying in it, blood slicking the white and tracked all through his apartment when the idiot had shown up with an arm cut off and looking for help. He feels a weird surge of both guilt and fondness – it was such a fucked up situation, but it had been genuine, Wilson needing help and trusting Frank to give it.

In a weird way, despite being a mercenary and a flamboyantly talented liar, Wilson really is one of the most genuine people Frank knows.

More awake now, for better or worse, Frank secures the towel around his waist and leaves the bathroom. When he’d first moved into this place, he’d had a constant frustration over the smoke alarm, which tended to bleat a false warning after a hot shower because there was no way of ventilating the bathroom properly. The sound set his teeth on edge, and these days he’d taken to opening the closer of the two windows in the space, even in the dead of winter, to let the steam out before the alarm could scream.

Moving to do that now, the window jerks open before he reaches it, just a few inches, and he sighs and moves to get dressed. Even after the shower, he’s stiff and sore, and pulling on clothes requires more effort than he thinks is strictly fair.

His apartment is essentially a box with a couple windows in it. It’s small and there’s not much extra space, but there were certain things he felt were almost required to consider a place a living space. The couch was one, even if he’d never planned on having guests over much. Another is the little table tucked in the corner by the half-wall that separates the ‘living space’ from his bed. It’s just big enough for two people to sit at with plates and drinks, and Cable’s set them both a spot with a plate and mugs of steaming coffee.

It amuses Frank in a dull way that the spot Cable’s not sitting at – ostensibly the spot intended for him – has what Frank thinks of as ‘Wade’s mug’ sitting to the left of the plate.

Sitting makes him wince, which is to be expected, and Cable is polite enough not to acknowledge it as he tries to settle on the hard wooden chair in a way that’s not unbearably uncomfortable.

“Where’d you get bacon from,” Frank asks, looking up from studying the plate of scrambled meat, eggs, and vegetables. “And… peppers?”

“Bodega on the ground floor,” Cable says, and nudges Frank with the fork set beside his plate, ignoring the way Frank frowns. Frank’s not sure if it’s that Cable went down to the bodega that troubles him, or just the idea of Cable having left and come back specifically to cook him breakfast. Both are equally bizarre. “Eat,” Cable insists, and Frank takes the fork.

Cable is a pretty good cook, and the eggs in Frank’s fridge had needed to be used anyway. He nods his appreciation and makes a gesture with his fork, still chewing. They were supposed to talk; the vague gesture is an invitation to start. He smiles faintly when Cable chuckles over it.

“Talk,” Frank finally says, swallowing and finally picking up the mug – it has bright pink letters racing across the white, reading ‘Bitch Fuel’, definitely not something he’d have bought himself – and taking a sip of the coffee.

“I’m gonna say some shit you don’t want to hear,” Cable warns, and all Frank can do is nod. What else is new? He listens to Cable drum his fingers on the table and focuses on his coffee for a moment while the other man wool-gathers.

If his gut is tied in a knot, well, that’s really just edging back into normalcy, isn’t it. He’s rarely comfortable, rarely relaxed or without some shadow of anxiety hanging over him.

At last Cable says, “Wade told me that you broke his nose before he could even get in the front door.”

“He came in through the window,” Frank grumbles, defensive.

Nate frowns. “But you still broke his nose.”

“It healed.”

“You of all people should know that just because something heals doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He’s not a punching bag, but he likes you, and if you can’t keep your temper in check, he’ll let you use him as one anyway.” He sighs, and for a second, just a second, Frank sees him older, more tired; he’s wore out from all the war and his own personal crusade.

Wade likes to call Cable ‘Mutant Jesus’, and Frank doesn’t know about any of that, but the guy has a bend for self sacrifice and the drive and energy to make himself a leader. He takes more on himself than necessary, more than he should.

In that moment, Frank feels intensely guilty, not just about decking Wilson but about the way he’d put Cable up as an authority without even directly asking if that was acceptable.

The idea of apologizing feels useless, stupid. After a second, he does it anyway, staring at his plate.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Cable says, patient, and Frank looks up finally, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah, actually, you are,” he says seriously, even as he feels that ugly, embarrassed tension building in him again. “Not for hitting Wilson but. For the other shit last night.”

Cable pauses for just a moment, processing, and then nods a little. “See this is what I mean, this black and white bullshit you do. It’s either all or nothing, huh, all your fault or not?”

Irritation blooms in Frank, but before he can show it or even really process it much at all, Cable pushes forward.

“You can’t assume blame for a thing that’s not a problem. I liked watching you squirm and could feel you liked it to; personally I don’t think it needs to go deeper than that. You want someone to lead, and I enjoy being that person. That’s not where things got fucked up.”

Yesterday, Frank would have lost what fraying temper had remained to him at that. Before the latest job fuck up, when he was just starting to open up to the idea that this fuck buddy thing was both acceptable to want and maybe even a good thing, he would have shut down.

And before that? Before Wilson got under his skin and this whole thing got started?

Oh, back then this kind of conversation would have been unthinkable.

Frank’s not really sure if this is what anyone means when they talk about ‘progress’, but it’s certainly something.

“Where did things get fucked up then,” he asks, and is surprised, honestly, by how genuine the question sounds. By how interested he actually is in hearing an answer.

Cable smiles thinly, brows lofted. “Boundaries? And the fact that you refuse to enforce yours in any consistent, meaningful way with me or Wade?”

Frank frowns tightly and stabs at a glob of egg on his plate. That assessment feels unfair and he can’t help saying so. “Really don’t see how you can bitch about me punching Wilson for breaking in and then say I’m not ‘enforcing boundaries’.”

“You’ve let him in through the window before,” Cable says, and it’s frustrating, how patient he is even when obviously irritated. “As far as Wade’s concerned, and I know you know this because he’s come here when you’re not home plenty of times, an entrance is an entrance, and if he’s worried about you – and he was, which you’d know if you hadn’t decked him the minute he got in – he’s going to find a way to check on you regardless of one locked door.”

“Well how the fuck am I supposed to set boundaries, then?” Frank snaps, and then grits his teeth trying to reign himself back in. His hand, suddenly clenched around the fork, relaxes by slow increments, and he appreciates, suddenly, that Cable has seated them across the table from one another, rather than side by side. He does not want to be touched right now, and Cable has proven to be the sort who offers comfort through tough. “A locked door is a boundary. Ignoring him banging on that door is a boundary. Pretty fucking clear boundaries.”

“Try using words,” Cable says, and there’s just enough snide in that disapproval to make Frank feel a blend of flustered angry, uncertain if he wants to blush or stand up and punch the bastard. “You get away with the non-verbal shit with me because you expect me to fish the truth out of your head. Wade can’t do that.”

There is a momentary pause in which Frank is certain they’re both thanking any God available for that. It eases the tension well enough that Frank is able sort out a clear response. “He doesn’t listen,” is what he says, and that’s true – half the time it feels like Wilson does the opposite of anything asked of him just to push.

Cable shrugs; Frank can hear the machine parts whir when he does. “He really does. I’m not gonna argue with you that he doesn’t love to push when he wants to get under your skin or feels like you’re ignoring him. But trust me, you establish a real, clear boundary, and he will respect it.”

Frank’s plate is mostly clear of food and there’s not much left to do with it but push the little that’s left around, so he focuses on the coffee, still warm in that ridiculous mug. Cable sounds like he’s speaking from experience, but it’s just beyond strange to think of trying to have a real boundary-setting conversation with Wade Wilson.

“Alright,” he finally concedes. It’s not like he can fuck up much worse than breaking the merc’s nose as a hello. A conversation he can at least try, if Wilson comes back, which he almost certainly will. After all, it was hardly the first time Frank had punched him. “I’ll. Talk to him about it.”

“And,” Cable prompts, and Frank’s brow furrows, confused even as he continues, “You’re going to start talking to…?”

Glancing over at him, Cable looks as expectant as he sounds, and this time Frank really does blush. “Uh,” he mumbles, feeling incredibly eloquent in his confusion. When Cable sighs Frank grits his teeth and looks away again, taking another sip of coffee.

“Me, Frank, you’re going to start talking to me,” he says, and it’s surprisingly kind, as stupid as Frank feels hearing it. “You’ve made it very clear that you’re uncomfortable with me reading you every time I want clarification, and that’s fine, but you can’t expect me to just _guess_ when you _want_ me to –”

“I like it,” Frank says, the words bursting out of him, cutting Cable off. “I like it, when you’re in my head. I like… I just like it. It works.”

It does, that’s the truth. He’d already been mulling that over this morning, and had figured Cable would have heard that. When this had all started, he’d continuously forgotten that the telepathy was even a thing Cable could do, but it had quickly turned into something he took for granted, because it made talking so much easier, at least with one person.

Cable is the one person who could figure out the violent chaos in Frank’s fucked up head and understand, often even when Frank himself _didn’t_ understand, what Frank wanted or needed. He flinches a little when Cable leans over the little table and rests his hand on Frank’s wrist, but honestly, the touch is a comfort. It’s understanding, and somehow Cable physically touching him really does quiet the riot in his head. The doubt and anxiety and rising irritability don’t disappear, but they muffle, something like white noise rushing over the usual mess.

When Frank looks up again, Cable smiles. It’s miles, _worlds_ away from that terrible smile from last night, the one that promised pain. “We can make that work. I think you should… mull it over, though. Don’t do it black and white; it’s not an all or nothing thing. There’s ways to make it work and not have me worrying about overstepping.”

The idea of Cable worrying that way is weird; he always seems so completely assured. Frank supposes that’s an easy enough mask to put on – people have said the same of him.

Cable squeezes his wrist gently and the withdraws, standing up and picking up their empty plates. “I cooked, so you can wash up. I’m gonna head out – I have a job I want to get done in China and I’m going to get Wade to come with me. I don’t promise he won’t text, but chances are we won’t have time for him to be too obnoxious with it. I suggest you take some time to sort your shit out, with your intel guy and with this communication concept.”

He manages to make that last sound both like some kind of joke and utterly sincere. Frank half expects him to use the bodyslide thing, but he goes out the front door, leaving Frank sitting alone at his little dining room table with half a mug of coffee and a mind overflowing with uncertain, prickly emotion.

As he sits there, hands wrapped around Wilson’s ridiculous mug, he hears the deadbolts slide back home almost as soon as the door is shut with Cable on the other side, and realizes that, regardless of his uncertainty in the face of everything moving forward, he still feels pretty good.

He feels, for the first time in some long while, like hope is more than a kick in the teeth waiting to happen. He feels, in a way, cleaned out and ready to start again, and it’s good.


End file.
